


March Words 26: Imminent

by Siriusstuff



Series: March Words [26]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Derek Hale, Ficlet, First Meetings, M/M, Not all that explicit, OMC's (mentioned), Omega Derek, Sex Worker Derek, Spark Stiles Stilinski, please read top notes, this is not an A/B/O fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 09:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14102817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: Derek's life may never be the same after a mysterious stranger enters the bar one night.





	March Words 26: Imminent

**Author's Note:**

> For day 26 of the March Words prompt list: https://inkandblade.tumblr.com/post/171412546721/drabble-me-march
> 
> The word is "imminent."
> 
> This fic deserves a title all its own , or at least a subtitle. I'm thinking _Purple Skies, White Sparkles_
> 
> Please note: In this fic Derek is an omega on the A/B/O spectrum and there are references to his experience with alphas on the spectrum but that is all incidental to the story. This fic is not an exploration of alpha/omega dynamics.  
> There are also references to Derek's accepting money in exchange for sex, also only incidental to the story but the reason for the "sex worker Derek" tag.
> 
> This fic is so far from canon it's set in New Orleans, Louisiana

Looking out from the second story balcony of Laussen’s Lair Derek is sure he’s never seen the sky look purple before.

Not even hurricanes turn the sky purple before they hit, and it isn’t hurricane season anyway.

The western evening sky is purple, dark. What people call heat lightning flashes along the horizon. Maybe a storm’s coming after all.

Derek can’t smell any rain.

He walks back through the vacant upper floor and to the bar downstairs.

Hank’s not working tonight, Jesse is, who’s straight and married, so if Derek wants to get laid he’s going to have to do some looking. But it’s still early.

Jesse may not want Derek’s ass but he knows the deal with Hank so he pours Derek a beer soon as he takes a seat at the bar.

Derek leans on the bar top, puts a little arch in his back so his butt crack shows. Yes, it’s early but if anybody’s interested then so is Derek, plus it never hurts to advertize.

But nothing happens, and nothing happens until the bar lights flicker as if lightning‘s struck close by.

But lightning hasn’t struck, and there’s no thunder.

Little by little people trickle in. Not a one takes a stool either side of Derek.

It looks like it’s going to be one of those nights, when the lights flicker a second time. This time the door swings open like it’s been blown open by wind, which shouldn’t happen since Hank’s got a heavy-duty pressurized door-closer installed for that very reason.

The person standing there looks like a tourist, but not exactly like a tourist, and he just stands there.

There’s a commotion at a table towards the back. Four patrons get to their feet suddenly. They toss cash on the table and look like they’d run out a back door if Laussen’s had a back door.

The stranger looks amused, takes his time moseying to where Derek sits and chooses the stool to his right for his seat. He smiles as the foursome rushes out of the bar like they just got news of an emergency where they live.

Derek’s on the receiving end of the stranger’s smile next. It’s a knowing smile.

“Their kind don’t like me,” he says.

“What kind is that?” Derek asks. Jumping into conversation with strangers is nothing unusual for him.

“The kind that people like me send back where they belong.” He doesn’t pause before introducing himself. “Stiles Stilinski.” He offers his hand.

Both statements blow past Derek because all he’s noticed is how this _Stiles’s_ nostrils flared as soon as he got close to Derek. But Stiles probably isn’t an alpha. If he were he’d already have his tongue down Derek’s throat.

The smile is back on Stiles’s face when Jesse sets down the ginger ale he asked for.

Derek watches as Stiles pings the glass with his finger.

The drink changes color and Stiles drains half of it in a few swallows.

“You haven’t told me your name,” he says but Derek’s gone from thinking he’d got his score for the night to feeling uneasy, very uneasy.

Stiles is aware.

“My apologies,” he says. “I’m on my way to a… congress, in Atlanta. I got _pulled_ this way. I don’t know anyone in New Orleans. I’ve got no reason that I know of, to get drawn here but I did and it didn’t feel like anything I should resist or ignore.”

“You’re magic,” Derek says.

“I let you see that, too. I changed my drink to something… more interesting, without a glamour to hide it from you.” Stiles pauses, waiting for a reaction from Derek who just keeps staring at him. “I’m an emissary,” he finishes.

_Emissary_ is a word Derek hasn’t heard since he was a boy, and the emissary he knew then could not turn ginger ale into something else or frighten—whatever they were—out of a bar.

He’s still a little on guard but Stiles hasn’t done a single aggressive thing, and he’s being honest.

Still, Derek asks, “You’re not doing anything to _me_ … are you?”

Stiles’s answer, “I promise you I am not, and I will not,” isn’t a lie. “I think—I mean, I know, _now_ , you’re what drew me here—”

Derek interrupts. “I don’t _know_ you.” Fortunately there’s enough noise in the bar to keep his outburst from drawing any attention besides Jesse’s.

Stiles lowers his voice, nodding. “I don’t know you either. But I think we should find out about each other.”

To Derek it sounds like a line, a lousy one too, but before he can think about it further Stiles keeps talking.

“I know a couple things about you.”

Derek’s eyes grow wide.

“You’re an omega—no pack smell at all. And… _you’re an omega_ ,” he whispers.

“I’m not ashamed of that.”

“Didn’t know if it was common knowledge here. That’s all.”

So Stiles has discerned Derek’s lone wolf status and his gender—from scent.

“You’re not an alpha.” Derek’s pitch lands the sentence somewhere between statement and question. “You’re not a ’wolf.”

“True, but…” Stiles taps his nose which Derek understands as _magic nose_.

He’s relieved Stiles isn’t an alpha. Derek beds an alpha only when he’s in the mood for a rough dicking down or a knot, or if the alpha pays him.

“So… I have to guess your name?”

“Can you do that?”

“No. But I’ll try.” A few seconds later, never taking his eyes off Derek, Stiles says, “Russell.”

It sounds so wrong Derek laughs and tells Stiles his name.

“Thank you, Derek. What’re you drinking?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

Stiles grins and orders two beers. Jesse, assuming Derek’s _working_ , feels glad at least these will be paid for.

Stiles works the transformation when they clink their glasses together with a “Cheers.”

Derek tastes berry, raspberry. The alcohol’s still there, and something else.

Why he trusts a magic-user he just met, trusts him enough to drink his potion, Derek suspects this is what happens after going home with hundreds of men, most of them strangers and all of them with numerous and varied quirks and kinks.

Stiles talks about his pack, somewhere Derek’s never heard of, in California.

He’s been driving cross-country for days—which is fortunate, he insists, because he might not have felt the pull to this no-star establishment, and to Derek inside it, had he been in a plane.

Stiles never flies, he tells Derek. “If I get thirty thousand feet in the air I attract lightning.”

He laughs but Derek doesn’t want to know how Stiles found out that particular fact about himself.

Derek keeps _his_ stories to himself, his hustling and stealing for his livelihood, down the east coast, across the south, sometimes kept, sometimes homeless. It’s not interesting, definitely less interesting than Stiles’s stories.

By the time they exit Laussen’s Lair for his apartment, all Derek wants to find out is what other kinds of magic Stiles can do.

 

When Derek opens his eyes it’s still dark out. Stiles isn’t in bed anymore but Derek hears him in the bathroom.

He comes out drying his hair, otherwise naked.

Stiles doesn’t have a knot but he has a _spark_. That’s what he called it. He was already balls deep in Derek’s ass when he _asked_ —actually asked for Derek’s permission—to call on his _spark_.

Stiles was fucking Derek perfectly well, but Derek had wanted magic so he gave Stiles the go-ahead.

On his back, already holding onto the bed for dear life, his ankles on Stiles’s shoulders, Derek saw white flashes in Stiles’s eyes before they went white altogether, glowing. It might have been frightening except Stiles was grinning, and his teeth glowed white too. Softly sparkling lines forked over his face, down his throat, his arms. A white line moved down the center of Stiles’s torso, and Derek knew when it travelled down his dick and into himself.

Spark sex is the best sex ever and even after a nap Derek’s still too blissful to consider he might never have it again.

Stiles switches on the bed lamp and sits down, looking at Derek, into him it feels like, and it feels good.

“Why don’t you come with me to Atlanta,” he says. “I’ve got a nice rental car for the drive there and, believe me, I’ll have a nice suite in the hotel. You can’t come to the, uh, _meetings_ with me, but there’ll be parties every evening—because apparently emissaries can’t get enough of each other’s bullshit.”

“Sounds like fun,” Derek snarks. “Why are you even going? Doesn’t sound like you like it.”

“ _My_ attendance is mandatory. Every year I have to receive a severe talking to.”

In answer to Derek’s confused expression, “Because I’m not a hundred percent human emissary, because of my spark. Some of the—” Stiles makes jazz hands when he says “ _high council_ are assholes. Afraid I’m going to turn them into newts.”

“You can do that?” Derek asks.

“Not so far.”

Derek’s thoughts return to what he heard before his initial question.

“I don’t have clothes for parties,” he says.

“We’ll get you clothes.”

Derek starts dropping from his blissful heights realizing it’s just going to be _that_. Again.

Stiles can’t touch Derek now, not without Derek feeling Stiles’s spark. While they were connected, physically, energetically, Stiles saw some of Derek’s life, and more. His spark’s what drew him from the highway to the bar.

Stiles is _not_ another in the long line of the men Derek’s known. But Stiles has to convince him with words, for starters, because if he touches him his magic will work its influence.

“Derek,” he begins, “when we were…” but he gropes for the word until Derek provides it, “Fucking.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, that. But was that like any fuck you’ve ever experienced—I’m not bragging!—I’ve fucked with my spark before. But not like we did. What happened… hasn’t ever happened before.”

He pauses while memory floods him.

“I _saw_ you. That’s the only way I can explain it. I _saw_ your life, at least parts of it. I saw _us_. And I don’t even understand what that means yet.—And I don’t _see_ things!”

“Sounds unfair,” Derek says. “I only know what you told me.”

“I’ll tell you anything about me you want to know.—Just, first, will you come with me to Atlanta?”

Why not, Derek thinks, at least he’ll get more spark sex.

“Yes. OK.”

Stiles takes up Derek’s hand, presses his lips to it. A gentle, pleasant tingling spreads from his lips. When he looks at Derek, Derek looks _pleasured_.

“Derek!” Stiles nearly shouts. Then he holds Derek’s hand between both of his. He holds Derek’s gaze with his own, silently.

Derek’s expression changes many times, from confusion, to deeper confusion, to disbelief, to inward focus.

“Orange and blue?” he asks.

Stiles attempts to curb a giddy laugh, because he wants to concentrate still.

“They’re your favorite colors?” Derek asks again.

“YES!” Stiles shouts, nearly as loud as Derek’s moans when they were fucking.

“Am I magic now?” Derek sits up for that question.

“I don’t know! I _do_ know nobody’s ever done what you just did, even getting spark-dicked on the regular!”

Derek giggles.

“It’s one of the things we need to find out,” Stiles repeats.

“In Atlanta.”

“Yes. Atlanta. First. Atlanta. Yes!” Stiles babbles. After a few deep breaths, “Would you be ready to leave in the morning?”

Derek thinks about Hank, who’s got a girlfriend, is banging Derek and also at least one drag queen at a notorious club.

“Yeah. I don’t have to pack a lot,” he answers.

“Great.” Stiles smiles, still holding Derek’s hand, now pressed to his heart.

“So, you feel like, maybe now round…?”

“Four,” Derek fills in.

Stiles shifts so he can lay at Derek’s side, half on top of him, and Derek shivers as a pleasing thrill unfurls though him, from his crown to his toes.

 

 


End file.
